The Velvet Shade
by Aspen Blue
Summary: 22 years after the rebellion, Panem enjoys peace. Yet while Katniss and Peeta have put the horrors of the past behind them and built a family in District 12, dark undercurrents still rattle the country's foundation. Follow old heroes and new, lovers and shadows, and villains and victims, as Panem's greatest threat returns for revenge - and its greatest hope for the future rises.
1. First Signs of Snow

_**This is the story of Panem two decades after the revolution, as peace reigns and the country seems ripe for a rebirth after twenty-two years of reconstruction. Plutarch Heavensbee has risen as President of the country, leading with a fair and rational mind over the people. Panem's never forgotten the Hunger Games, nor Katniss and Peeta Mellark, still the lovers of the nation – and now parents to two children.**_

_**But the Mellarks' daughter, Iris, wants nothing more to emerge from the shadow of her famous parents and build her own destiny. With the rise of an old threat many have forgotten and a name unrivaled in fear in this hopeful but fragile country, she'll get the chance to rise as much more than just a child of the Mockingjay.**_

_**Told from multiple perspectives of heroes, villains, lovers, and victims, this is the account of Panem's breaking point – and the events and people that changed the country forever.**_

* * *

_District 3 | 22 Years After the Rebellion_

* * *

Beetee Latier was a good man. Of that Elora Vasquez was sure.

The young woman had looked after and cared for Beetee's home for the last two years. More and more she looked after Beetee, as well. The old victor's smarts were as sharp as ever, but he was going on seventy years old now Often times he'd forget his things, leave behind important possessions, and on rare occasions, forget events and people he'd recently met. Elora had needed to introduce herself three times to him before he'd come to remember her.

Elora had been just a young girl during the rebellion, but she'd remembered the terror that had gripped District 3 as the bombs had fallen and showered the town with ash and fire. She'd learned to keep her reservations and her wits about her. Yet the first time she'd walked into Beetee's home after the district's mayor hired her to take care of the aging victor, he'd opened all his doors to her without a single suspicion.

"Being alone focuses my concentration," he'd told Elora after she'd asked about visitors or guests stopping by. "I can work without interruptions. It's all about momentum, you see. Once you put your mind to a task, you can slip away from everything else. Plutarch likes that. He still calls on me to handle the little details he needs."

"The President?" Elora had said, shocked that the aging victor had kept up with Panem's leader years after the rebellion had come to a close. "He's…"

"A man of many faces, yes," Beetee had finished for her. "An interesting man. A man who remembers."

Elora had come to respect Beetee as a good friend. She didn't have a problem listening to him talk for an hour on end about the most minute of technical details. After all, she'd found out that he needed much more caretaking than his house. The old victor didn't keep many possessions. A digital clock on a sunlit windowsill, a paper map of the bright side of the moon Beetee had drawn himself above the fireplace, and an old, coiled ring of wire brought life to an otherwise spartan home.

Yet even Beetee must have gotten lonely from time to time, Elora figured. He'd brightened at their chats, and he'd always enjoyed speaking of his annual visits to the Capitol in celebration of Remembrance Day that marked the end of the rebellion.

Twenty-two years now, Elora thought as she pushed open his door. He'd be going back in just a couple weeks now.

She knocked on the door as she walked on. "Beetee?"

Silence answered her. Maybe he was asleep, or he'd remembered an occasion for once. Fair enough. She could attend to what needed attention on her own. As she stepped past the threshold and into the wood-paneled front hall, however, she noticed something off. Something smelled foul in the house. Elora crinkled her nose at the smell. Had Beetee left food sitting out too long?

"Beetee?" she called out again.

No response.

Elora frowned and climbed the stairs. Everything was in its place, but a queasy feeling in her gut told her something was off. The white blinds to a foot-to-ceiling window on the second floor swayed as Elora stepped off the stairs and poked her head into the master bedroom to her left.

She sighed. Beetee sat quietly on a wooden chair, facing away from her and as still as a statue. He must have fallen asleep some time earlier and hadn't heard her. Just to be safe, she walked around the chair and glanced down at the victor.

He stared back.

Elora screamed. A short, stubby knife stuck out from the victor's throat. Streams of fresh blood ran down his shoulders and chest, pooling into a crimson pond in his lap. Frosty glaze coated Beetee's dark eyes, and his mouth gaped open in a look of shock.

"Oh no," she said, scrambling back and falling on the victor's bed. "Oh God."

"No gods in today."

Elora didn't turn around at the thick, raspy voice behind her. She took off running, dashing out the bedroom door and leaping down the steps. She had one foot out the front door when something sharp smacked into her shoulder.

"Ah!" she screamed, falling into a face full of dirt and a whirl of her brown hair.

Piercing pain shot through her shoulder and spread like a bolt of lightning through her torso. Elora grit her teeth and reached behind her. Her fingers ran over something lodged in her shoulder – a handle? She whimpered and crawled forward, desperate to get away from the secluded house to where someone could find her.

She couldn't do anything more for Beetee.

Before Elora could get another inch, however, a rough grip dragged her back into the house. She struggled as a hand tossed her against the wall. Blood – her blood – trickled out in splotches and drips onto the floor.

Elora's breath caught in her chest as she looked up.

She saw the blade swinging at her neck. Then she saw nothing.

* * *

_District 12 _

_**Iris Mellark**_

* * *

"Dahlia! Don't run off."

I don't know why I told her that. Maybe it was because the first snow of winter had fallen the night before, and my thirteen year-old cousin Dahlia's blonde hair blended in like camouflage with the frosty landscape of District 12. With her white coat, small stature, and pale skin, she could have fallen into the snow and I might never have found her. That's what she got for being my aunt Prim's daughter, I guess.

Of course, she wasn't a Mellark, like me. She was Dahlia Everdeen. No one but my aunt knew who her father had been, and I wagered that dark secret would never get out.

My younger brother, Forest, snorted. "When was the last time Dahlia ran off anywhere?"

"Just being responsible," I said. "Since you're not going to be."

"I was responsible enough to go out here in the freezing wilderness with you and her."

"It's not freezing."

"Uh, the snow?"

"It's not the wilderness either."

Forest shrugged and glanced around the cobblestone buildings of the marketplace. "Got me there."

I rolled my eyes. My fifteen year-old brother might have gotten my father's blonde hair and round face, but the similarities ended there. Forest had a knack for getting on my nerves. Worse, he'd grown too big for me to do much about it. I was two years older and my parents expected me to watch out for him, but that was a job easier assigned than done.

I twirled the end of my dark ponytail in the fingers of my left hand and clutched a deerskin sack in my right. Tempting aromas from a loaf of wheat bread inside wafted out, but I shrugged it off. It probably wasn't as good as my dad's baking, anyway, but he didn't have time for that today. My parents had bigger obligations on their agendas for the day, something that hadn't gone away all my life.

"Dad said they'd be meeting with Plutarch for an hour," I said. "Let's go stop by Haymitch's first. I can drop off this bottle."

"We could just sit here and drink it instead," Forest said.

I feigned a smile. "That's a great idea. Dahlia, wanna get drunk?"

My little cousin furrowed her brow and shoved her hands in her coat's pockets. From the look in her blue eyes, I guessed she wasn't entirely sure I was joking.

"The nays win," I said to Forest. "C'mon."

Dahlia trudged through the snow next to me as we left the merchant square. She looked away and slumped her shoulders. Something about her posture made a knot tighten up in my stomach.

"You okay?" I said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

She nodded and scrunched up the corner of her mouth. After a pause she said, "Mom's just been quiet the last week."

That didn't surprise me. For as long as I'd known my aunt Prim, I'd always found her short on words. My mom had said she'd never been one to speak loudly, but I figured there was something else that haunted her. Maybe it was something from the past and the rebellion that my mom had fought through, or maybe whatever had brought Dahlia into this world was behind it.

"Have you tried talking with her?" I said. She shook her head, and I suggested, "Why don't you go spend more time with that friend of yours, then?"

"He's busy," she said.

"Too busy to talk?"

"Rain's…behind in school."

"Y'know," Forest cut in, kicking a clump of snow out of his way as we walked towards the outskirts of town. "You could offer to help him with that. Two things done at once."

Dahlia shrugged. I didn't know what she saw in Rain Hawthorne, the oldest son of my mom's friends Madge and Gale. Gale had always seemed like a control freak to me, as if he teetered on the edge of yelling at someone every time a sensitive topic came up. Rain not only seemed like he'd follow in his father's footsteps, but also was two years older than Dahlia. His younger brother, Lake, seemed like a better friend and was Dahlia's age, but he'd never taken the initiative to talk much with my cousin.

I brushed my hand over snow-covered tree branches as we walked. Forest complained about the winter, but I liked this season. The white blanket of snow turned everything soft. I felt as if I could lie down and float away. The cold had never bothered me, anyway. It felt familiar.

"At least it's pretty out," I said as we walked up to the old Victor's Village. It wasn't much of a victors' home now, as the only victor who lived here was Haymitch. Snow lined the iron gate at the front of the avenue. A skinny, dirty cat hissed and scampered off behind the nearest house.

"Freezing," Forest said.

"Baby."

I didn't tell him my fingers had gone numb as we walked up to Haymitch's door. As nice as winter was, remembering my gloves would have helped.

When I went to knock on the old oaken door of the house, however, it flew open in my face. A grizzled, gray-bearded man wearing a brown shirt with a black stain on its stomach narrowed an eye and coughed.

"What're you doing out?" Haymitch said.

"We brought a –" I started.

"It's freezing out, sweetheart."

Forest beamed in his victory as I frowned and held up my bag. Haymitch shrugged and turned away from the door, letting me into the warm inside of his house. A fire crackled and spit in his hearth, casting yellow light and dancing shadows around his barren den. A half-empty bottle of gold liquid sat on a low table as the only decoration of note.

"What's in that? Bread?" Haymitch grunted as I set the bag down.

"Refills," Forest said.

"Oh, fantastic," Haymitch said as Dahlia shut the door behind us. "Now I'll get Peeta lecturing to me about alcoholism again. What a delight."

"Mom sent us out," I said. "She's talking to Plutarch again."

Haymitch snorted and rooted around my bag. "Who let her make the decisions?"

He pulled out the bottle of whiskey we'd bought for him at one of the stores in town, pulled off its top, and took a deep sniff. "Besides," Haymitch said, swirling around the contents. "I already talked to the guy. You might not wanna go home soon."

"Why's that?"

"Well, stop standing around and gaping like fish and I'll tell you."

He grabbed Dahlia's hand as Forest and I took a seat on his couch. "Got somethin' for you," he said to me cousin. "Hold on."

Haymitch hurried into his kitchen and returned with a wicker basket in his hand. A pile of oranges reached up over the sides, a flash of color in the house full of neutral colors.

"Know you like 'em," he told Dahlia, giving her a pat on the shoulder. "Tell your mom I said hi when you go home."

Dahlia took the basket and smiled. I don't know how two people so different got along, but Haymitch and my cousin understood each other on some level beyond me. Maybe it was her quiet demeanor and his solitude that clicked so well, but it was a connection that flew over my head.

"So," I said as Dahlia squished onto the couch between Forest and I. "Why am I not supposed to go home?"

"Stress relief. For me," Forest said.

"Mm. 'Preciate that," I said.

Haymitch settled down on a leather couch and took a swig from his new bottle. He stared into the fire, sighed, and said, "Bit of a stressful time."

"Why?" I said.

"Well, we all got the holiday coming up –"

"Yeah, great. Fun."

"You know, you honestly disturb me with all that sarcasm," Haymitch said, pointing at me and taking another drink. "You sound like me."

"Could be worse."

"Could be. What's so bad about a free trip to the Capitol? It's not like everyone's watching you. Just Katniss and Peeta."

I frowned and looked away out the window. "They do," I said. "They're always asking about my parents, though. It's like I'm just their agent or something. Like who gives a damn about Iris Mellark, huh?"

Forest snorted. "Free food and celebrations to me. I'm not gonna whine about it."

Haymitch shook his head and set down his bottle on the table. "Think your parents don't like the attention, honestly."

"They handle it fine."

"I didn't say nothin' about handling. I said they don't like it."

"Why, it's…" I pause and wave a hand in the air. "People know their names, at least. Everyone does."

"Not all for good reasons," Haymitch said, a shadow from the fire trotting across his face. In that instant, the wrinkled lines across his forehead turned into fault lines and aged him ten years.

We sat in silence for a few moments until a honk broke it up. One of Haymitch's geese wandered into the room from the kitchen, investigating the noise.

"Get out," Haymitch said, throwing a cushion at the goose.

Dahlia looked offended. "It can stay," she pleaded.

"It'll poop on you," he said.

That shut her down. Dahlia froze in mid-stand and reclined back into the couch as the goose waddled off.

"You didn't answer why we're not supposed to go home," I said, stealing an orange from Dahlia's basket and peeling the fruit.

Haymitch picked up his bottle again and eyed its contents. "You're persistent, huh? Tell your mom she needs to parent better."

"Coming from you?" Forest said with a smirk.

"I parent geese. I'm an expert, boy."

"Not if they're crapping in the house," my brother said.

Haymitch feigned a look of indignation. "Manners! Ah, you won't get that one."

"Why's Plutarch even here?" I said. I wanted to get to the bottom of things before Haymitch veered off into a drunken rant about geese droppings.

"What, you don't like our glorious leader stopping by?" he said, taking another drink. "Wasn't such a glorious conversation, and it wasn't about the holiday. Old friend died."

"Who?"

"Way to pry, sweetheart. Don't know if you know him. Old victor from District 3, Beetee. He was in his seventies."

I scratched my neck and looked away. "So…was it just like old age?"

"Nope," Haymitch said, slamming his bottle down on the table. Dahlia reeled back as drops of alcohol sprayed on her. "Murder."

None of us spoke for a moment. Murder? Who'd want to kill an old victor? I'd only met Beetee once, but he hadn't made much of an impression. What made someone want to get rid of him?

Forest spoke for me on that thought. "Why?"

"Why? Ask the guy with a calling card," Haymitch said, folding his arms and looking out the window. His eyes closed halfway. "Whoever killed him left one, at least."

"What was on it?" I said.

Haymitch chuckled. "Just one thing. Guy said who he wants to hurt next."

"Who?"

"Victors. Plutarch. Anyone associated with the rebellion, and I guess that includes me," Haymitch said. "He made a point of singling out one person, though. I guess whoever's behind it, he really doesn't like your mom."

* * *

_**Author's Note:**_ _**Thanks for reading! This story is slightly altered from the end of Mockingjay: Some characters who died in the books are still alive here for plot purposes, including (but not limited to) Finnick, Madge, and Prim. Several other details, such as when Katniss and Peeta had children, have also been altered for content.**_

_**I'm always open to suggestions, questions, critiques, reviews, and anything else that can help me write and tell the story, so chime in if you have any comments! Story's rated T for violence, mature language, physical and psychological horror, and occasional references to adult themes. All established Hunger Games content, including but not limited to Panem, the Capitol, Katniss, Peeta, Haymitch, Prim, Finnick, Annie, and other material, is the property of Suzanne Collins**_. _**Enjoy!**_


	2. Fatherly Counsel

_**Haymitch**_

* * *

Those kids had brought me some good stuff. I didn't know what they'd paid for the bottle of whiskey, but it didn't taste like the usual swill from District 12. Normally I'd be happy to drink anything that eased the day by, but when it tasted good too, well, that was a nice bonus.

No doubt it was Iris's idea. Stupid girl was turning out just like Katniss, as much as she denied it. Or like me. She certainly had the temper and the attitude, and except for her eyes, I'd have never guessed Peeta was her father. Next thing I knew, she'd probably be off shooting things with her mother's bow and making up stupid plans to run off to places with nuclear weapons. I hoped she didn't corrupt that little girl with her ideas. Dahlia was nice, even though I didn't talk to Katniss's sister much. She reminded me a bit of Maysilee. Quiet. Composed. Cautious.

"Ah, screw you," I said, tapping the bottle against my head and staring at my kitchen's wooden floor. "Get outta there."

Only one cure for bad memories. I took another swig of the bottle and slammed it down on the table with a loud _bang_. One of the geese, the fat one I think, squawked its outrage at me.

I turned around and took another drink in defiance. "You gonna stop me? I ain't got cancer yet."

Off at the front of the house, the door banged open against my wall. The unwelcome guest of the winter wind blew into my kitchen.

"Why'd you come back?" I said, half towards the door and half into my table.

"Haymitch?"

It wasn't the kids again. "Great," I said under my breath, taking another drink in preparation for the conversation to come. "Just what I needed."

My visitor poked his head into the kitchen. Peeta hadn't aged a bit in twenty-two years. His face still had that same boyish roundness it had when I first had met him on that godforsaken train. He'd even kept the muscles that Katniss had pinned on his baking background. Maybe he kept his blonde hair a little neater and his plaid, button-down shirt wrinkle-free now, but he hadn't changed much from the kid who fought his way through two straight Hunger Games without complaint.

Well, maybe a couple complaints. He _did_ have a point that one time in District 11. Come to think of it, he usually did have the right points.

"What?" I said without looking up at him.

"Did Plutarch come talk to you?" Peeta said, leaning against the kitchen's door frame and picking a piece of peeling paint from the wall.

"He said some words."

Peeta sighed and pulled out a chair from across the table. As soon as he sat down, he pulled the bottle away from me and frowned at its contents.

"Is this District 9 stuff?" he said.

"I dunno. Maybe," I said, staring off out the window.

"Did Iris get you this?"

"Is that your new name for Plutarch? Iris? It's cute."

"My daughter got it, didn't she?"

I became fascinated in the fingernails on my right hand. "We may have engaged in a transaction, yes."

Peeta leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. He rubbed at a patch of facial hair on his chin he'd missed in shaving and said, "You can't let her do things like that, Haymitch. She looks up to you. I don't want her getting drunk."

"It's a gift," I scoffed, running the bottle over the table from one hand to the other. "Don't lose your lunch over it. Besides, why doesn't she look up to, you know, her dad?"

"She's seventeen. You know how they get. Katniss and I aren't so much fun in her eyes anymore."

"Well, that's not out of the ordinary, I guess," I said. "I got a pretty good memory. If I recall, rebellion's all the rage with seventeen year-old girls."

Peeta scowled at me and creased his eyebrows in disappointment. "I thought it was funny," I added. "You're not laughin', though."

"Think we've had enough of that," Peeta said, snatching the bottle away from me before I could react. "We can talk about my daughter and keeping her from turning into an alcoholic later."

"It's not so bad, really…"

"Look," Peeta said, cutting me off. His eyes darkened and welled up with gravity. "About Plutarch. Katniss and I were going to the Capitol anyway for the holiday, but this whole thing about staying until they figure out what happened to Beetee – it just doesn't sit right with me. What if we're there for months, just sitting on our hands because Plutarch wants to keep everyone safe?"

"Sits fine with me," I said with a shrug for emphasis. "All expenses paid. May Beetee rest in peace."

"You think someone's really out there trying to kill people connected to the war? That sounds stupid. That sounds like a dumb idea someone came up with for a story."

"Dumber things have been written. But let's be serious, boy, this country's not as happy as Plutarch would have everyone believe."

Peeta rolled his eyes and sighed. "You sound like Katniss now."

"She's writing dumb stories?"

"No. She's not taking Beetee's murder very well either, but don't tell her I said that. Things are fine here in District 12. Heck, we even went out to District 4 to see Finnick after the holiday two years ago and it didn't look bad to me. Yeah, I get that not everyone's happy that the war didn't lead to some sort of paradise, but come on, that wasn't going to happen."

"Not everyone's gonna get that," I said, leaning forward on my elbows and eying the whisky bottle like an owl. "Look. We've got people unhappy out west in District 1 and District 4 because they haven't really gotten anything out of the new country. The Capitol's people aren't exactly happy either, although that was a given. I doubt all of them would be sorry to see Plutarch go. We've still got poor people. We've still got rich. Things don't change overnight, Peeta. There are gonna be some guys who can't wait and want to change the world overnight, even if that means turning into a monster and trying to kill everyone. Hell, it's a little more surprising that someone hasn't tried to kill us already."

"That's what the Peacekeepers are for."

"Yeah, well Peacekeepers don't get everything. They didn't get us when they were under Snow."

"There's not a rebellion in the country, Haymitch."

"No. But that doesn't mean that unrest doesn't exist. It can take whatever form it likes. All I'm saying is don't take Plutarch to be dead wrong about this, even if I agree that he's a pompous idiot."

I leaned back and wrapped my hands behind my head. "I hate to sound like you, but better safe than sorry, y'know?"

"I just," Peeta began, but he stopped short. He looked out the window as his eyes softened, turning into jelly in his face. I looked away. I didn't know how to respond to emotions like he did. I'd never caught on to getting in touch with my feelings, something that seemed to come naturally to him. This kinda thing felt awkward.

After a long pause, he said, "I just don't want to upset everything again. Forest and Iris are still in school, and Katniss isn't going to want to leave Prim and Dahlia all alone here while we tromp off to the Capitol for what, a month? Months? More? It's just bad timing if we have to spend a long time away. Iris is in her last year, too. What if this whole thing…"

"Don't worry about her," I said, doing my best to reassure him. "Your girl's smart, even if I think she's stupid. How much did I learn in school? 'Bout nuthin'. How much did you? Hell, Peeta, school only went to fourteen or so back when we were kids here. Now they have eighteen years and it's all different after Paylor went crazy with her 'educational reforms' or whatever she called them. I think the girl gets it by this point."

"I'm really just making excuses, I guess," Peeta said, covering his chin with one hand and staring into dead space. "I haven't even figured out want Iris wants to do with her life. How stupid is that? Forest still has a couple years, and I know he wants to work in the Capitol, so it's all fine for him. It's like I don't even get my own daughter, though. Maybe that's it."

That was it, then. I was stepping into uncharted territory here. I'd never considered myself much of a counselor, but Peeta and Katniss had trusted my words ever since the war had ended. Yet I'd never even bothered to figure out that Iris came to my door so often because she didn't understand her parents – and because they didn't understand her. Perhaps all that complaining she'd done earlier in the day about not living in her parents' shadow really meant something.

Unfortunately, I didn't have any of the answers Peeta wanted. I'd never been a father.

I frowned and pulled at the hairs of my beard. I needed a trim. "If anything, you can't help her by ignoring Plutarch and just sitting here. Hell, you and Katniss figured things out on your own after the war. You run a bakery, she hunts. It worked out fine."

"Come on Haymitch, it's more than that," Peeta said, glowering at me with a look of self-loathing.

"No, no, it's not," I said. "Well, maybe a little. But maybe she'll figure out her own way in the Capitol. While we're busy smiling for cameras and feeling celebratory over the holiday while Plutarch supposedly keeps us safe from assassins, she can find her own way. Give her a little room to run. She's headstrong. Wants freedom. I can't blame her. Katniss wasn't any different. You weren't."

Peeta looked down, grabbed my bottle, and took a long drink. "Maybe you should be doing this job," he said.

"You're not screwin' up, you're doing fine," I said. "Besides, you said it. We were all idiots at seventeen. You and I were killing Careers. At least she's not doing that."

He nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, she's not doing that."

"'Least let's hope she doesn't have to do that," I said. "Gimme that bottle back. I want to have a week-long buzz before we tromp off to that awful city for who knows how long."


	3. The Insurgency

_**Storm Conroy**_

* * *

The day was cold, dead, and white.

My foot had gone numb from lying on it for the past ten minutes. I shifted my leg and waited for the inevitable tingling to start. Somewhere on my left, a mound of wet snow fell off of a branch with a loud _whump_. It was a distraction from a place so full of stillness and silence. It was like some sort of diorama, the way icicles hung from rocks and dead things and the very air itself seemed to freeze in place. Everything smelled fresh, even though everything that walked, slithered, or flew had taken shelter from the winter a long time ago.

Everything but me – and the others responsible for blowing up this train.

The magnetic train track fifty feet in front of me looked out of place between the skeletal trees and the snowbanks. It was the only thing obviously human out there, humming with electricity along its steel gray strip. Somewhere from the south a train was coming. It was loaded with District 9 grain and District 8 cloth, headed on its way to District 7 up here in the frigid north. It wouldn't have many Peacekeepers – so Valens had said, at least – and it would be easy prey to snag supplies for our movement.

Not bad for a day out. If I weren't freezing my face off, it'd be right peachy.

The branches to my right rustled again as pins and needles stabbed my foot. I grimaced as an older, dark-skinned woman picked her way out of the trees and kicked my foot.

"Ah, lord," I said, pulling my leg up. Sadistic woman. "What was that for?"

She smirked. That mouth of hers always bothered me. No one had teeth like that, like a lion's fangs jutting between her lips. That wasn't natural. Of course, everything else about her wasn't exactly normal, either.

"It was there. How long we got?" Enobaria Webb said as she lay down a few feet away from me and pulled her white jacket's hood over her head. "Gonna freeze to death out here."

I shook my head and spat at a rock. "You grew up in District 2. Mountains 'n shit. How isn't this normal to you?"

"Don't play that 'my home is warm' guilt card with me, Storm."

"Look, we don't have this snow stuff in District 4. At least, we didn't when I lived there. Maybe it's changed in the last few years for all I know."

Enobaria pulled on a strand of her long hair. It hadn't even started to turn gray yet, despite her age. She was the most formidable-looking fifty-something year-old I'd ever known. That's what winning the Hunger Games so many years ago did for one's physique, I suppose. She certainly hadn't lost a step. She hadn't lost those hips, either. I didn't really mind that she was twenty years older than me. I could certainly entertain the notion of-

"Stop eying me," Enobaria said without glancing my way. "You're just like the other schmucks back at the fort."

I leaned on one elbow and pointed a finger at her. At least she was a fun tease. That was one advantage she had that so many of the others lacked. "I resent that. I don't spend all my time wondering whether or not you're Plutarch's bed buddy and spying on us for him."

"Bed buddy? That's a pretty weak imagination. He could be my sick uncle, I guess."

"You know what they say about old guys."

"They're wrinkled?"

"Nah, I don't know what you say about them. I just made that up."

Enobaria picked a chewed-up piece of red gum out of her mouth. She eyed the morsel for a moment, popped it back in, and said, "So if I'm spying for Plutarch, are you spying for those crazy separatist people in 4 and 1?"

"I sure as shit wouldn't be sitting in the snow if I was."

"Ah, here it comes again."

"No, look," I said. "If we're gonna be waiting here forever, spill the beans. Why go join the rebels back during the war and fight against 'em now that they're the ones in charge? I ain't sayin' nothing, I'm just asking."

"Probing."

"C'mon, there ain't a difference."

"Same reason 1 and 4 aren't happy," she said with a shrug. "Not enough's changed. You think you fight against the bad guys, only to realize that everyone's got some bad in them. So fuck it. It's not like Snow's in control of this. She just sits there and looks regal and whatever. She's a puppet whose name is Snow. Valens is the brains. He's no Snow."

"Dunno if I'd say that out loud. At least not back at the fort," I said.

"We're not at the fort."

"Well, yeah."

"So I'll say it."

"Alright, alright."

I stared out at the train track and picked at a fingernail. She was right, in a way. I wasn't very old during the war, but I remembered District 4 before. It had the Games, sure, but it was also a thriving place. The Capitol's wealth helped the districts like my home that played along. I hadn't been back there in years, but the talk was that the district had picked up an edge. It had a grain to it now, a dark side anxious for change once again. District 4 had always been the rebellious sort, but it was something else as well. The people there craved independence and prided self-reliance. Paylor and Plutarch's ideas of a happy, united nation may have helped out the likes of District 12 and District 10, but for 4, 1, and 2, they'd fanned more fires than they'd put out.

Great change, rebels.

A soft beeping started up in my pocket. I pulled out a black, fist-sized wafer and clicked a button to stop the noise.

"Five miles away," I said, shoving the device back in my pocket. "Any second now they'll blow it."

"Game time," Enobaria said, getting up into a crouch and moving behind a nearby snowbank. From behind, her camouflage jacket turned her into just another snow-covered rock.

Game time, indeed. Enobaria was good at these kind of games. So was I.

I slipped a short, stubby submachine gun covered in flaking white paint out of my jacket and lay still. Time froze like the land and sky for five seconds. My breath slowed to a standstill in my lungs.

_Blaow!_

A mushroom of fire and smoke blasted into the sky a half-mile away. The explosion rattled the tracks and sent snow flying in the wind. Still I held my breath, statue-like, waiting for the real visitor to show up. An explosion wasn't the end. It was the beginning of this game, the gong at the Cornucopia, so to speak.

"Remember," Enobaria hissed. "Can't let any walk away."

Somewhere down the tracks, a loud _wooo_ sounded, growing louder and louder like the arrival of a storm. I leaned out just an inch farther and saw it coming: A great gray freight train barreled in towards us along the track, slowing as fast as it could to avoid the destroyed tracks ahead. Whirlwinds of snow whipped up in a cyclone around the silvery wedge of the control car. The driver had to know he was in trouble. No doubt he'd called Peacekeepers, but they wouldn't show up in their hovercrafts for some time.

_Fwish!_ A red-tailed rocket rushed out of the forest of tree skeletons, smashing into the side of the second train car and opening up the metal wall like a can opener.

"Someone's got good aim," Enobaria shouted over the din.

The train groaned to a halt like a great, dying beast. I was up in a flash, Enobaria right on my heels. We didn't have much time. The Peacekeepers would be there in their airship inside of an hour, and we had to get in, raid this thing, and get out before then.

Enobaria and I rushed towards the last car, fifty meters down the track from us. The first sign of trouble popped up in seconds: A Peacekeeper climbed up out of the roof of the train, his white armor dull under the cloudy sky, his gun drawn and searching for targets. He turned on me and raised his weapon to his shoulder. Before he could fire a round, another rocket roared out of the trees and slammed into his car.

"Down!" Enobaria shouted, grabbing me and pulling me down into a snow pile. Yellow waves of fire washed over our heads.

I jumped back to my feet, sprinting for the last car and glancing over my shoulder. Other men in white and gray winter camouflage rushed in at the train from all sides, grabbing at doors and running for holes blasted open by explosives. Shock and awe at its finest.

It wasn't so cold anymore.

I spotted a cargo door on the side of the last car and ushered Enobaria on. "Get it open! C'mon!" I yelled, reaching for one handle as she grabbed the other.

We didn't open it more than an inch before Enobaria stopped. She leaned down by the door, pulled a knife from her jacket, and plunged it in the gap between the door frame and the train car. A scream called out from within. I moved to the middle of the door, straining and hoisting it up myself as Enobaria reached inside and pulled out a gray-uniformed man by his bleeding foot. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five, still young and without a memory of the Hunger Games that had made the warrior standing above him.

That didn't matter to Enobaria.

"Little shit," she said, plunging her knife into his neck and kicking his convulsing body away into the snow.

I didn't look back. I pulled myself inside the car, huddled behind a wooden crate, and looked around from behind the sight of my gun. The interior of the car was dark and musty, full of the smell of smoke and dust. Fortunately for me, however, Enobaria's victim had been the only one in there. I wouldn't pass up good luck.

I shouldered my gun and pulled my own knife out of my belt, digging the sturdy blade underneath the lid of the crate in front of me. We'd hit the right train: Bundles of red, white, and black cloth stacked up inside the crate. Tough luck for District 7. Our cause needed it a little more.

"Grain car?" Enobaria said, hoisting the door open the rest of the way.

I shook my head. "District 8's stuff. 9's probably to the front, but screw it. Let's get these crates out of here so-"

A loud _thump_ interrupted me. Enobaria peaked out from the side of the car and nodded. "Hovercraft's here."

"Theirs?"

"No, idiot. Ours. Just nailed a runner."

I shrugged. "Okay, sure. Push that crate next to you out so the hovercraft can haul it up."

She'd barely shoved the first crate out the side when the door to the next car banged open. I dove to the side as a Peacekeeper charged in, slamming the door behind him and ducking behind a crate near the front. Enobaria swore and took cover, the three of us now in a triangle of a standoff around the car.

"Get around him!" Enobaria shouted. "Get-"

The Peacekeeper raised his pistol and fired a shot in her direction. She ducked, but he was a poor shot. The bullet sent up a shower of splinters from a crate to her left, embedding in the cloth and fabric inside.

The hell with this. I didn't want to damage the goods, but I wasn't going to get stuck in a stalemate, either. I popped up over my crate and fired. I was wobbly, off-center, and I missed just as badly as the Peacekeeper had as my burst of bullets hit a crate to his side.

"Gimme cover," Enobaria said, pulling a knife from her jacket.

"What? No, don't do that you idiot!"

She turned towards me and looked on the verge of going anyway when the car door slammed open again. The biggest man I'd ever seen, wearing a torn and ripped brown flannel jacket that matched his messy mane of brown hair, bounded into the room and rounded on the Peacekeeper. The man raised his gun in a half-hearted attempt to defend himself, but half-measures weren't enough to stop the brute of a man that swatted away his pistol like a gnat. The newcomer snarled and picked up the Peacekeeper by the neck in one giant mitt, slamming his head against the wall once, twice, like the pounding of a great bass drum.

So he died.

Enobaria looked over the side of her cover and sheathed her knife. "Malek," she breathed. "Nice."

The man, Malek, dropped his victim and glanced at us with a face devoid of understanding. The way he frowned at her with his eyebrows lowering just a fraction of an inch gave me the feeling it wasn't so nice to him.

"The crates," he said with a warm voice ill-fitting a man of his stature – or the deed he'd just done.

As soon as he'd stepped in he left, walking right back through the door he'd come in.

I placed my hands on my hips and looked around. "Yeah. Yeah, the crates. Just another job now."


	4. The Black

_**Iris**_

* * *

Midnight had engulfed the world outside.

I touched my fingers to the train window and peered out into the darkness as it flew by. I couldn't see anything but shadows and ghostly shapes out there. The trees had transformed into phantoms in the dark. The night sky's thick cloud cover had turned the winter landscape into a foggy black shadow. It was as if I'd broken off into a bubble, watching the reality pass by from within the pane of glass that separated the real world from mine. Yellow running lights along the ceiling and low-backed plush couches surrounded me in the train's lounge car as we sped along towards the Capitol. Bright pansies arranged in a display on a nearby metal table added a spark of color. In that other world, the real one, the one outside, there was nothing but the black. No pansies. No color. No life.

My family, Haymitch, and I had left District 12 earlier that afternoon. We'd be coming up to the Capitol by tomorrow morning. I remembered how fast these trains went from the last time I accompanied my parents on the Remembrance Day holiday last winter – and the winter before that, and the one before that. It was always the same. Tomorrow a gaggle of reporters would want to know all about what my parents were thinking heading into the holiday they had helped create. They'd want to pick over their thoughts, put them in front of a camera or two, maybe ask them one or two questions about their home life. But me, no, I'd be there for showing, not for telling.

Had this been what it was like for my mom and dad back during the old days? Had the Capitol led them around as spectacles after their Hunger Games? They'd talked to me about those times in vague terms, but I didn't know if I'd ever truly understand their points of view. I knew them as victors, as heroes, as people respected by the whole country. I didn't know them as equals.

"You cold?"

I shook my head as my mom shifted on the couch behind me. It was a little cold, but I didn't mind the chill coming in through the window. Even if I had, I wouldn't have mentioned it to her.

I didn't turn around as she stood up, nor when I heard her pull a blanket off of the couch. So much for stoicism. My mom walked up behind me and wrapped the blanket around my shoulders. She hesitated for a moment before stepping a foot to the right away from me and looking out into the darkness, one hand balled up against the window.

"It'll be colder in the Capitol," she murmured.

I scrunched up one side of my face and said, "It's not bad."

"Just saying. We might be there a while longer this time," she said.

I picked at a loose piece of skin on my index finger. Serious, emotional conversations weren't my forte, particularly not with my mom. She was the warrior, the soldier, the strong one. She'd never been one for big words or long explanations, not like my father. These things always felt awkward.

"I know that, too," I said, gazing out into dead space. "Haymitch told me your friend Beetee died."

She didn't answer. I didn't expect one.

Another thought cropped up in my mind, and before I could push it back down, I said, "Why didn't we bring Dahlia and Aunt Prim with us if people are worried about things?"

"Nobody's worried."

"Mom, he told me you were already."

Before she could say anything more, however, the answer I was looking for banged open the train car door. Haymitch barged into the room, slamming the door behind him and flopping down into one of the couches. He ran a hand through his messy hair, looked up at the ceiling, and laughed.

"Bad news, kiddos," he said.

My mom jutted out her jaw and narrowed her eyes. "Can you not be drunk for one night?"

"Haven't had a drink. The news is bad," Haymitch said. "Don't get ahead of yourself, sweetheart."

"Haymitch, I am not in the mood."

"Well that's a shocker," he said, leaning back and putting his hands behind his head. "Just had a nice little phone call with this crazy woman from District 7. She wasn't in a good mood either, but then again, when is she ever?"

"What'd Johanna want?"

I frowned. My mom had never let me spend one-on-one time with her friend from the rebellion days, Johanna Mason, although every time I'd seen the two together, they'd seemed in good spirits. Haymitch had described her with a million unkind adjectives ranging from noisy and grouchy to snarky and surly, but that only egged on my interest in picking her brain.

"Let's backtrack a bit, huh?" Haymitch said. "Plutarch told me there's been some uh…stuff…going around in 9, 11, and a couple other districts. Y'know, food missing here, tools missing there, cash, maybe some Peacekeeper guns, all that kinda stuff. Plutarch's all optimistic, so he calls it theft. I think he's just pulling the shirt over his eyes."

"It's wool. You pull the wool over your eyes," I said, cutting him off. "That's the phrase."

He looked up at me with an annoyed expression. "Yeah, great. That."

My mom put a hand on my shoulder and pushed me towards the door. "Iris, go to bed. Forest already did. Go find Dad and –"

"Shit, let her stay," Haymitch waved her off. "Let her stay. We'll be in the Capitol forever at this rate, anyway. Plutarch's gonna go security crazy now. Can't have his favorite people getting killed off away from his watch. Girl might as well get used to this kinda talk."

My mom paused but kept a grip on my shoulder. "It was Beetee, Haymitch. He was old."

"Someone decided to take a potshot at a train headed towards District 7." Haymitch said. "And I mean they blew it up."

"Johanna…" my mom started.

"Nah, she wasn't on it," Haymitch said. "She's in the Capitol. But just chimed in on the fun. Doesn't sound much like thieving, huh? Almost sounds a little familiar."

He chuckled once and kicked his feet up on the table. "Hell. Maybe the shoe's on the other foot, for all I know."

My mom didn't look so entertained. She scowled and said, "You're talking stupid."

"Shoe's gotta be on the other foot, because I used to say that about you."

"Wait a minute," I said, pulling the blanket off of my shoulders and tossing it onto the couch next to him. "Are you saying there's like a…people are trying to rebel again or something?"

"No, he's not," my mom said.

"Right for once, sweetheart," Haymitch added. "No one would be stupid enough to declare outright war like we did. No one has the numbers to do it, even if they had a twenty-year grudge. Maybe I'm just saying that someone's disgruntled and they're being a helluva lot smarter about voicing that opinion than we ever were. Maybe something's going on, something more than just one dead old guy in District 3 and a derailed train. Maybe nothing's going on. We sure don't know. We shoulda done it a lot quieter the first go round, then there woulda been no Games. Things were a lot clearer back when ol' Snow was around, huh? He was bad, that was that. Now we're all one country under Plutarch. Reconciliation, everyone's pleased, yeah, yeah. I doubt one exploding train will be the last unpleasant thing we hear about in the Capitol over the next month."

Suddenly riding on a train didn't seem so much like a world apart from reality any more. I glanced around the cabin and clutch my hands to my shoulders. If someone was out to blow up trains, what was stopping them from doing that again? A train carrying the Mellark family sounded like a much better target than one on a normal route to District 7.

My mom noticed me and grabbed my hand. "Haymitch, that's enough," she said, her words little more than a growl. "You and I can talk later. Iris, bed."

"Mom, it's fine," I said, trying in vain to plead my case.

"No," she said. "C'mon. Bed."

She half-dragged me out of the cabin by the hand, throwing open the car door with just as much force and noise as Haymitch had used. Once we stepped into the dim, brown-walled hallway of the next car and the door closed behind us, my mom leaned against the wall and gripped my shoulder.

"Don't listen to him," she said, her eyes wide and staring straight at me. "He's sixty-three and up too late."

I gripped my hands and bit my lower lip. I knew she was trying to reassure me, but I didn't like being left in the dark, even if reality was as haunting as the inky blackness of the winter night. "Mom, if something's going on, I want to know."

"I don't care what Haymitch says. I don't care what Johanna says," she said. "Nothing is going to happen, and especially not to you or your brother or Dad or anyone else we know. Not while I'm here. Alright?"

She let me go and clenched her jaw. "Listen, when we're in the Capitol, don't run off. There are people there…"

She left her thought hanging and glanced around, as if the floor would provide the word she was looking for. I cut in and said, "Mom, we're there every year. I know the Capitol."

"We're there for a few days every year," she said, her eyes shooting back up to meet my gaze. Her eyebrows tightened. "There are people there who aren't going to have your best intentions in mind. They aren't as honest as people back home are, and the Capitol's not always holidays and dresses. There're plenty of bad things that happen to good people there every day. I don't want you getting involved in any of that, so stick close when we're there, even if you're bored out of your mind. Got it?"

Her tone of voice told me that wasn't a choice. I nodded and wrapped my arms around my chest.

"It'll be fine," she said, stepping forward as if to give me a hug, thinking better of it, and pulling back. "Just run off to your room and go to bed. I have to talk to Haymitch. I'll see you in the morning."

My mom gave me a pat on the hand and opened the door to the lounge car, this time with much less anger in the action. As soon as she was gone, I reached over to the wall and flicked off the lights in the cabin. Darkness flooded the hall, with only the glow of red running lights along the floor breaking through the black.

This was reality. There was no bubble to live in and watch the darkness from afar. It was around me, around everyone, whether we accepted it or not.


	5. The Measure of Results

_**Finnick Odair**_

* * *

"Finn?"

Annie's thumb rubbed over mine. Her eyelids drooped, turning her sea green eyes into sleepy little slits. I smiled as I run a hand through her brown hair, stopping my finger when it reached a knotty tangle near the end of a strand. Age had caught up with my wife. Lines ran across her forty-four year-old forehead, and her skin didn't radiate with quite the same luminosity it had when we were young and full of energy. So long ago, back when we had yet didn't have each other, Annie had worried about what happened in the Capitol. She'd known all about Snow's games. I'd never told her, but she has a brain under all that hair that could rival anyone's in Panem.

"Finnick," she'd said during those days when the sun's rays paled against the glow in her cheeks. "If you want to – you want to – to go somewhere else…"

I'd held her hands, brought her close, and every time, said, "No. Maybe on the outside, but not where it counts. Not in here, and not in here." I'd touched her on the forehead and placed my palm over her heart with those last words.

Yet every time I'd tried to reassure her, she'd pant and grab her arms as if I threatened to pull them off of her. "They're not messy like me," she'd said once. "Not broken and wrong. I know what they say about me, and they're right. I'm not perfect. I'm not even good. Just go, just find someone else who won't hurt you and –"

I pulled her in close that day. Even as she reached for her ears and clamped her eyes shut, I'd pressed my lips to her cheek, leaned forward, and whispered, "You're not perfect. That's why you're perfect to me."

Age didn't bother me. She was still Annie under that face, and she'd always be perfection in my eyes.

"Where're you going?" she mumbled, picking her head an inch off of a pillow.

"Down to the docks," I said. I didn't want her worrying over nothing, especially before we'd get on our train to the Capitol that afternoon. "Gotta talk to the Overseer before we leave. I'll be back in a bit. Just go back to sleep, okay?"

She murmured something incoherent and leaned back into the cushions. Good enough answer for me.

White morning sunlight trickled through our living room's blue curtains. Azure patterns bounced around the carpet as the curtains rustled. I buttoned up my wrinkled brown shirt, closed the door to the den behind me, and peeked into our kitchen.

"Drake?" I said. "That you?"

My eighteen year-old son stood hunched-over in the kitchen, rooting around the pantry like a seagull for anything edible. He had Annie's brown hair, but besides that, even I could have confused him as a time-traveling clone of myself at that age. I don't know where Drake had gained the muscles that lined his shoulders and chest, but wherever it was, I wagered it had girls.

"Did you just come back?" I said, pulling a pitcher of water off our counter top and taking a swig.

He didn't stop digging through the pantry as he said, "Yeah."

"It's…ten-thirty."

"She wanted breakfast."

"Just her?"

"Yeah."

I snorted and set the pitcher back down. Maybe he'd inherited a bit too much from me.

"Gotta go out 'til lunchtime," I said, moving around the counter and slapping him on the shoulder. "Look after your mom. Don't do all those fun things like blowing up the house or whatnot, huh?"

He looked up and half-closed his right eye. "'Cuz that happens a lot."

"All the time," I said with a grin. "Precautions! They're good to take."

He rolled his eyes and went back to his frontal assault on the pantry. Our food budget sure got a workout with him around. I made a mental note to thank Plutarch for his victor stipends and trotted out of the house.

Being on the coast, it never dipped below freezing in District 4. Even in the first few days of winter, however, today was a warm day. I didn't even need a long-sleeved shirt as I walked down the rocky hill that gave our house a perfect view of the green hills to the north and the bay below. The sun's reflection was as bright as a laser beam on the surface of the water, but I could still spot a handful of trawlers lumbering across the bay. They were the stragglers: Most of the fishing fleet still running daily routes no doubt had already made it far off the coast, kicking off the day long before the sun came up in order to reel in the ocean's night feeders.

That thought brought up some painful memories. I squeezed my eyes as I walked, shoving the thoughts back down into the storage vaults of my mind. Some things were better off forgotten. Try as I might, I couldn't get rid of them.

Walking down the hill also presented the less pleasant view to the east. Wooden and metal shacks had sprung up over the last seven years a half-mile away from the docks. A horde of the poor had moved in there. I'd never noticed District 4's poverty-stricken people much back when I'd been a boy and even as a victor, but they'd grown more numerous recently as the economy had taken a downturn. Plutarch every other month or so promised things would get better if we just kept working hard and staying together, but for the people who lived in the lean-tos, hopeful words weren't worth more than a sopping slice of bread. Plans mattered, but the president had been short on those for a while now.

Katniss said thing were getting better out in District 12 and 11 and whatnot, but we were still waiting for those results on the West Coast. When people around the country weren't buying as much fish and things from the sea, we ended up with dozens of trawlers sitting around in port, catching no fish and leaving their owners with nothing but gripes.

I shoved my hands in my pockets and ignored the crimson graffiti sprayed on a shed as I walked into the outskirts of the marketplace. The artist's crudely-scrawled "I'm sure glad the odds are in our favor now!" hit just a little too close to home for me to grin. Some scars never healed over.

The town marketplace was more active than usual. Dozens of unshaven men and dirty-faced women loitered around dingy bars, swilling drinks of dubious make and cussing with impressive vocabularies. It never was too early to drink around here, and not even I had a chance of keeping people from boozing up and ranting about everything from seagulls to who they wanted to shove off of a fishing boat in the dead of the night. The cool coastal breeze smelled of sweat and seaweed, and I wouldn't have been surprised if that's what made up what passed for beer in some of the pubs.

It took me fifteen minutes of dodging unruly pedestrians and navigating through the market's gravel streets before I made my way down to the docks. The sun glinted off the hulls of a dozen metal ships at anchor, ones I'd seen being built over the past year. They looked a bit like stubby barges, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out who was making them – or for what purpose.

A gray-haired man leaned up against one of the dock pillars. If I hadn't known him, I would have looked down at his muddy brown shoes and ripped blue pants and judged him as a down-on-his-luck fisherman. His grisly face, punctuated by a rugged silver beard that ran from ear to ear, didn't hurt that assessment.

But he wasn't a fisherman. He was Francisco Byers, the Overseer of District 4 and a man who'd used Plutarch's appointment as the governor of the district to become much more than just a civil leader.

"Lovely day for a sail," he grumbled as I got closer. "Only most of these people won't be sailing until next week."

"What happens next week?" I said as I leaned a hand out to the same splinter-covered pillar. "The country bans beef and everyone switches to fish?"

"Shipment to District 7," he said. Francisco didn't show a hint of humor at my attempt at a joke. His face could have frozen the whole bay, and I assumed it would have if it hadn't always looked like that. I wasn't sure the man had ever laughed in his life. "It'll clear the surplus out."

He ran a splinter of wood over a fingernail and glanced at me with eyes much too blue for his grimace. "It doesn't sound like much is reaching District 7 these days, though."

I sighed. "It's one train. Wasn't even our stuff whoever it was blew up."

"You know the last time we had chum go missing?" he said. "Train to 5. They charged us for the missing goods. Said we were stiffing them, and when we tried to appeal, the Capitol sided with them. Maybe it doesn't matter if someone blows up our shipments. Maybe they'll go missing anyway and we'll be left holding the bill."

"You know, I know this about trains," I said, trying to ease his tension. "They go fast and they run on a rail. That's about it. They used to have chandeliers. I kinda miss those. If you want to talk about trains, District 6 might be a better option."

He chuckled once, his lips flinching as if he were in pain. "Well you're going on a train later today, aren't you? You, your boy, your wife. You can learn a lot in the Capitol. I'm sure they'll be eager to tell you it all."

Francisco motioned towards the docks, where one of the metal-hulled ships rocked in the rising tide. "Let's take a walk, hm? Got something to show you before you leave."

That didn't sound like a request, so I folded my hands behind my back and strolled down the dock beside him. The salt-encrusted wood creaked below our feet. Barnacles clung to the pier's pillars with vise grips.

"People are tired," Francisco muttered. "Tired of excuses."

"That's human," I said.

He grunted in agreement. "They stick together, though. We all do here on the bay. Not just us, either. I talked with Irvine two days ago. She called me on the phone, and her people are tired too. They've heard enough excuses in District 1, just like we have. Seven years of giving more to 11 and 12, seven years of blaming the economy, but when do we get a break? How much medicine and food are they sending our way, hm?"

"Probably as much as we give them in fish," I said with a shrug.

"Should be with 12, at least," he said. "Because that total was zero last year. And the year before. District 1 makes our medicine, and I'd say it's all we need. In fact, I'd say together, we have all we need between the two districts. More than enough food, more than enough goods. I'll give Paylor a little credit from her time in the President's chair. Making us all diversify so we're not exclusively catching fish or cutting gemstones did us a favor."

"This sounds like a long-winded way of getting to the point," I said.

He stopped in front of the ramp to the metal ship. "The point's on the boat. After you."

The metal ramp rattled as I walked up it. Francisco kept talking as we boarded, saying, "You're still well-liked here, Finnick. How much better off do you say we are now as compared to, say, twenty-two years ago?"

"Well, no one's going to a game of death, so there's that."

"Good point," Francisco said, stopping me as we stepped onto the boat's deck. "That's a good point. But you volunteered, hm? Your wife volunteered. Everyone from here did."

"They didn't in most of the other districts."

"But here they did."

"Yeah. So?"

"So people got what they asked for," he said. Francisco turned back towards the docks, reaching out his arm and waving his hand towards the marketplace. "You think they're asking for grog and tired eyes today?"

I planted my hands on my hips and looked away. Francisco put on a good show out of looking out for District 4, but sometimes he couldn't see – or just refused to look at - the whole picture. "Look. Most of the country's on hard times right now. District 2, they're under pressure because no one's building much in the Capitol the last few years. Yeah, they do other things, but they still dig rocks out of the ground. We catch fish. People don't want as much fish, they won't buy as much. It's not forever."

Francisco stuck his thumb against his chin, turned towards me, and grinned. "Doesn't have to be now, either."

"This is the part where you ask me to do something, isn't it?"

"Victor's instincts."

Francisco opened up a door in the side of the boat's superstructure and ushered me down a steep set of stairs. Darkness flooded the hold below. It smelled like dust down here, but I couldn't see past my fingers.

"Let's take a look," Francisco said.

He hit a light switch, and four old yellow bulbs hissed and spat as they clawed to life. Heavy metal pieces of machinery and steel tubes lay in various states of repair around the dimly-lit hold. Wooden crates piled in between the pieces. Francisco nodded towards the nearest crate and grabbed a crowbar leaning against the wall.

"You see," he said as he planted the crowbar against the lid of the crate. "We're all a little tired of empty promises. Enough talk from the Capitol. We need results and action. When you're in the Capitol, I want you to get those results from Heavensbee."

I folded my arms and pursed my lips. "You want me to make Plutarch magic away the economy's problems? It doesn't happen like that now, Francisco. Plutarch's not Snow. He doesn't just do whatever he wants. It takes time, and people have to agree."

"Maybe that's the problem," Francisco said, wrenching the lid off of the crate and setting it on the floor. "Those other districts aren't going to agree with us. They spent seventy-five years watching our boys and girls kill theirs. Why would they give us results now?"

"So where does that lead?"

"If Plutarch can't give us results," he said. "Then District 4 will get them itself."

I peered into the crate. It took me a minute to realize what I was looking at in the poor light, but when I understood, my eyes bulged. Neat rows of silver-gray, bulbous tubes with small fins on one end lined the box from one end to the other. He didn't have to tell me what they were. I'd seen things like this a long time ago – back when I'd called District 13 home for a few horrible months.

They were shells. Mortar rounds.

"What…are you doing with these?" I said, my voice little more than a whisper.

"Not I," Francisco said. "We. You. Me. District 4. District 1. Don't let those Capitol types lie to you, Finnick. All you ever got from that city was a trove of regrets. You met your wife here. You had your son here. You buried your parents here. District 4 is your home. It's Annie's home."

He waved his hand around the hold and added, "We'll get results, one way or another."


End file.
